Timothy Crump's Ward: A Story of American Life

by Jr. Horatio Alger

  "BY gracious, if that isn't Ida!" exclaimed Jack, in profound surprise.

  He had been sauntering along Chestnut Street, listlessly, troubled bythe thought that though he had given Mrs. Hardwick into custody, he wasapparently no nearer the discovery of his foster-sister than before.What steps should he take to find her? He could not decide. In hisperplexity he came suddenly upon the print of the "Flower-Girl."

  "Yes," said he, "that is Ida, plain enough. Perhaps they will know inthe store where she is to be found."

  He at once entered the store.

  "Can you tell me anything about the girl that picture was taken for?" heasked, abruptly of the nearest clerk.

  The clerk smiled.

  "It is a fancy picture," he said. "I think it would take you a long timeto find the original."

  "It has taken a long time," said Jack. "But you are mistaken. It is thepicture of my sister."

  "Of your sister!" repeated the clerk, with surprise, half incredulous.

  There was some reason for his incredulity. Jack was a stout,good-looking boy, with a pleasant face; but Ida's beauty was of adelicate, refined type, which argued gentle birth,--her skin of abrilliant whiteness, dashed by a tinge of rose,--exhibiting a physicalperfection, which it requires several generations of refined habits andexemptions from the coarser burdens of life to produce. The perfectionof human development is not wholly a matter of chance, but is dependent,in no small degree, upon outward conditions. We frequently see familieswho have sprung from poverty to wealth exhibiting, in the youngerbranches, marked improvement in this respect.

  "Yes;" said Jack, "my sister."

  "If it is your sister," said the clerk, "you ought to know where sheis."

  Jack was about to reply, when the attention of both was called by asurprised exclamation from a lady who had paused beside them. Her eyes,also, were fixed upon "The Flower-Girl."

  "Who is this?" she asked, hurriedly. "Is it taken from life?"

  "This young man says it is his sister," said the clerk.

  "Your sister!" said the lady, her eyes bent, inquiringly, upon Jack.In her tone, too, there was a slight mingling of surprise, and, as itseemed, disappointment.

  "Yes, madam," said Jack, respectfully.

  "Pardon me," she said, "there is so little family resemblance, I shouldhardly have supposed it."

  "She is not my own sister," said Jack, "but I love her just the same."

  "Do you live in (sic) Philadelphia? Could I see her?" asked the lady,eagerly.

  "I live in New York, madam," said Jack; "but Ida was stolen from usnearly a fortnight since, and I have come here in pursuit of her. I havenot been able to find her yet."

  "Did you say her name was Ida?" demanded the lady, in strange agitation.

  "Yes, madam."

  "My young friend," said the lady, rapidly, "I have been much interestedin the story of your sister. I should like to hear more, but not here.Would you have any objection to coming home with me, and telling me therest? Then we will, together, concert measures for discovering her."

  "You are very kind, madam," said Jack, somewhat bashfully; for the ladywas elegantly dressed, and it had never been his fortune to conversewith many ladies of her rank; "I shall be very much obliged to you foryour advice and assistance."

  "Then we will drive home at once."

  Jack followed her to the street, where he saw an elegant carriage, and acoachman in livery.

  With natural gallantry, Jack assisted the lady into the carriage, and,at her bidding, got in himself.

  "Home, Thomas!" she directed the driver; "and drive as fast aspossible."

  "Yes, madam."

  "How old was your sister when your parents adopted her?" asked Mrs.Clifton. Jack afterwards ascertained that this was her name.

  "About a year old, madam."

  "And how long since was it?" asked the lady, bending forward withbreathless interest.

  "Eight years since. She is now nine."

  "It must be," said the lady, in a low voice. "If it is indeed so, howwill my life be blessed!"

  "Did you speak, madam?"

  "Tell me under what circumstances your family adopted Ida."

  Jack related, briefly, the circumstances, which are already familiar tothe reader.

  "And do you recollect the month in which this happened?"

  "It was at the close of December, the night before New Years."

  "It is--it must be she!" ejaculated the lady, clasping her hands whiletears of happy joy welled from her eyes.

  "I--I do not understand," said Jack.

  "My young friend, our meeting this morning seems providential. I haveevery reason to believe that this child--your adopted sister--is mydaughter, stolen from me by an unknown enemy at the time of whichyou speak. From that day to this I have never been able to obtain theslightest clew that might lead to her discovery. I have long taughtmyself to look upon her as dead."

  "It was Jack's turn to be surprised. He looked at the lady beside him.She was barely thirty. The beauty of her girlhood had ripened into thematurer beauty of womanhood. There was the same dazzling complexion--thesame soft flush upon the cheeks. The eyes, too, were wonderfully likeIda's. Jack looked, and what he saw convinced him.

  "You must be right," he said. "Ida is very much like you."

  "You think so?" said Mrs. Clifton, eagerly.

  "Yes, madam."

  "I had a picture--a daguerreotype--taken of Ida just before I lost her.I have treasured it carefully. I must show it to you."

  The carriage stopped before a stately mansion in a wide and quietstreet. The driver dismounted, and opened the door. Jack assisted Mrs.Clifton to alight.

  Bashfully, he followed the lady up the steps, and, at her bidding,seated himself in an elegant apartment, furnished with a splendor whichexcited his wonder. He had little time to look about him, for Mrs.Clifton, without pausing to take off her street-attire, hastened downstairs with an open daguerreotype in her hand.

  "Can you remember Ida when she was brought to your house?" she asked."Did she look like this?"

  "It is her image," said Jack, decidedly. "I should know it anywhere."

  "Then there can be no further doubt," said Mrs. Clifton. "It is my childwhom you have cared for so long. Oh, why could I not have known it? Howmany sleepless nights and lonely days would it have spared me! But Godbe thanked for this late blessing! Pardon me, I have not yet asked yourname."

  "My name is Crump--Jack Crump."

  "Jack?" said the lady, smiling.

  "Yes, madam; that is what they call me. It would not seem natural to becalled by another."

  "Very well," said Mrs. Clifton, with a smile which went to Jack's heartat once, and made him think her, if anything, more beautiful than Ida;"as Ida is your adopted sister, that makes us connected in some way,doesn't it? I won't call you Mr. Crump, for that would seem too formal.I will call you Jack."

  To be called Jack by such a beautiful lady, who every day of herlife was accustomed to live in a state which he thought could not beexceeded, even by royal state, almost upset our hero. Had Mrs. Cliftonbeen Queen Victoria herself, he could not have felt a profounder respectand veneration for her than he did already.

  "Now Jack," said Mrs. Clifton, "we must take measures immediately todiscover Ida. I want you to tell me about her disappearance from yourhouse, and what steps you have taken thus far towards finding her out."

  Jack began at the beginning, and described the appearance of Mrs.Hardwick; how she had been permitted to carry Ida away under falserepresentations, and the manner in which he had tracked her toPhiladelphia. He spoke finally of her arrest, and her obstinate refusalto impart any information as to Ida's whereabouts.

  Mrs. Clifton listened attentively and anxiously. There were moredifficulties in the way than she had supposed.

  "Do you think of any plan, Jack?" she asked, at length.

  "Yes, madam," said our hero. "The man who painted the picture of Ida mayknow where she is to be found."

 
; "You are right," said the lady. "I should have thought of it before. Iwill order the carriage again instantly, and we will at once go back tothe print-store."

  An hour later, Henry Bowen was surprised by the visit of an elegant ladyto his studio, accompanied by a young man of eighteen.

  "I think you are the artist who designed 'The Flower-Girl,'" said Mrs.Clifton.

  "I am, madam."

  "It was taken from life?"

  "You are right."

  "I am anxious to find out the little girl whose face you copied. Can yougive me any directions that will enable me to find her out?"

  "I will accompany you to the place, if you desire it, madam," said theyoung man. "It is a strange neighborhood to look for so much beauty."

  "I shall be deeply indebted to you if you will oblige me so far," saidthe lady. "My carriage is below, and my coachman will obey your orders."

  Once more they were on the move. A few minutes later, and the carriagepaused. The driver opened the door. He was evidently quite scandalizedat the idea of bringing his lady to such a place.

  "This can't be the place, madam," he said.

  "Yes," said the artist. "Do not get out, madam. I will go in, and findout all that is needful."

  Two minutes later he returned, looking disappointed.

  "We are too late," he said. "An hour since a gentleman called, and tookaway the child."

  Mrs. Clifton sank back, in keen disappointment.

  "My child, my child!" she murmured. "Shall I ever see thee again?"

  Jack, too, felt more disappointed than he was willing to acknowledge.He could not conjecture who this gentleman could be who had carried awayIda. The affair seemed darker and more complicated than ever.

  CHAPTER XXV. IDA IS FOUND.